Love across miles
792 Words
Chapter Six: Love Across the Miles
The day Adrian left, the city felt different.
Lila walked with him to the train station, carrying a small travel bag he insisted was too heavy for her. The platform smelled of iron and rain, and a low winter wind rattled the overhead signs.
He held her hands, memorizing the tiny freckle near her thumb, the way her nails curved in perfect half-moons.
“I’m terrified,” he confessed softly, his eyes bright with emotion.
Lila brushed a tear off his cheek. “Of what?”
“Of leaving the one place I finally felt safe.”
She swallowed around the ache in her chest. “Then take that place with you. It lives right here,” she tapped his chest, then smiled, even though it hurt. “And besides, Berlin will give you stories. Bring them back to me.”
He pulled her into a hug, warm and solid and heartbreakingly familiar. When the conductor called final boarding, he kissed her—slow, lingering, like a promise—and stepped onto the train.
Lila stood on the platform until the cars pulled away, carrying half her heart with them.
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The first few days without Adrian were brutal.
Lila found herself reaching for an extra teacup in the morning, forgetting he wasn’t there. She found his pencil on the shop counter and burst into tears. The emptiness in the store was loud, even with customers coming and going.
But she kept busy.
She reopened the bookstore as The Ink Room, a name they’d chosen together. She painted the back wall with a giant quote—“Stories live where hearts dare to feel.” She set up a small stage for poetry readings and art shows.
At night, she wrote him long letters on creamy stationery, pouring out every detail of her days: the scent of cinnamon bread from the bakery next door, the toddler who ran off with a fairy tale book, the couple who got engaged right in the poetry aisle.
And every few days, a letter arrived from Berlin.
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Dear Lila,
This city is a thousand stories stacked on cobblestones. The light here is different—harsh, but honest. I sketched the train station today and thought of you on the platform, smiling even as your heart was breaking. I miss you.
Always, A.
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His letters were beautiful, full of messy sketches and half-finished poems. He described painting under a glass ceiling, attending art lectures in German, sitting alone in cafés and sketching the world.
They made a ritual of writing every Sunday. She’d read his letter in the quiet of the store before opening the doors, letting his words feel like an arm around her shoulders.
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Two months passed.
The Ink Room began to bloom. People loved the poetry nights. Kids curled up in the reading corner. An elderly man started a chess club in the afternoon. Lila realized she had built not just a bookstore, but a home for people who needed one.
Still, at night, she missed Adrian terribly.
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One Friday, after closing, Lila found a letter from him that was different. His handwriting was shaky, and the words felt raw.
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Dear Lila,
Sometimes, I feel like I’m chasing ghosts here. Everyone expects me to be the next big thing. The pressure is crushing me. I see your face in every window, in every unfinished painting. I don’t know if I can do this without you.
I’m afraid.
A.
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Her heart broke reading it. She wanted to grab the first plane to Berlin. But instead, she folded a fresh sheet of paper, took a deep breath, and wrote:
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Dear Adrian,
Maybe you don’t have to do it without me. You have me. In every line you draw, in every color you choose. Remember how you taught me to be brave enough to try? It’s your turn. I’m still here, loving you, believing in you. Don’t come home yet—not until you’ve finished what you went to find.
We’re stronger than the distance.
Love always,
Lila
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She sealed the letter with a pressed violet flower, something he’d once tucked in her hair, and sent it off with a shaky hope.
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One month later, a surprise arrived.
Adrian sent her a package wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. Inside was a painting—a huge canvas. It showed the bookstore’s front window, light spilling out into the night, a figure reading behind the counter.
On the back, he’d written in messy charcoal:
“Home lives wherever you are
.”
She pressed her lips to the canvas, tears hot on her cheeks, and whispered, “I love you, too.”
- Writer
